


Undertow

by albatrost



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Canon Compliant, Canon Universe, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-19
Updated: 2018-07-19
Packaged: 2019-06-08 13:20:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,692
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15244266
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/albatrost/pseuds/albatrost
Summary: He would see what she saw in Eren, someday.





	Undertow

**Author's Note:**

> This was just a brief erejean PWP, which was originally meant to be continued into a full-blown story, that I wrote back in 2014 and never posted anywhere. I figured late was better than never!

For a long time, the reasonable side of Jean tried to see what she saw in him.

The image she painted of Eren—something subtle she had conveyed to Jean bit by bit over passing weeks, in the form of carefully-plucked words and telltale glances—was hardly identical to Jean’s perspective, after all. 

Not to say that her impression of Eren was at all illusioned—she wasn't blinded by bias, nor dishonest, throat thick with flattery. No, she understood Eren, faults and all, more clearly than anyone; even if she was attuned in every way to Eren’s quirks, she didn’t acknowledge them with any less disdain than a stranger would. In fact, Jean would say she was nearly more infuriated than he was with Eren’s hardheaded recklessness, if not only from the concern she harbored for him. It was an image he could hesitantly reconcile with his own, but the primary difference between their ideas still evinced itself. The barely-suppressed fondness in her even voice when she spoke his name. The glint of warmth behind her obsidian eyes that was rich with admiration, yet never quite resembled respect. Things quieter than a dusty flutter of moth’s wings that somehow bellowed volumes. 

Her affections were, of course, one of the original reasons he had taken up arms against Eren to begin with; a notion that seemed laughably, if not gut-churningly, ironic, given how things progressed.

Had a rather embarrassing envy not possessed him, it was possible that Eren and he could have been civil acquaintances from the start… regardless of the somewhat-condescending opinions they held about each other. After all, for a while, a part of Jean was willing to hope that all of Eren’s sermons were insincere. Perhaps Eren wore the façade simply to garner attention, or to relish in mock heroism. From what he gathered, it wasn’t uncommon for new trainees to hide nerves beneath a tough persona, and it wasn’t rare for plucky young guys to shun fieldwork and march off to the military simply to boast their bravery. Jean wouldn’t blame him.

Yet Jean grew past that long ago. It didn’t take much to convince him—though he accepted it with some degree of exasperation—that Eren couldn’t be anything but earnest. Even so, knowing that Eren was daft enough to actually believe in the romantic victory he sought wasn’t much better. Try as he might, he never could figure out why Mikasa, much less the better half of his fellow soldiers, were magnetized to his every word. Was there something promising about him? Something inherently righteous that Jean managed to overlook?

Jean was willing to admit—begrudgingly—that his own conduct was less than mature in their past confrontations, but he couldn’t help but see Eren as childish, in a completely different interpretation of the word. It was hard to make a hero out of a temperamental, red-faced child. In the very beginning, Jean never took it seriously, and all the spittle-frothing speeches in the world never made a difference.

Years later, even when Eren ascended as Humanity’s Hope, even when he allowed himself to be sculpted selflessly into a weapon of warfare, Jean still wouldn’t be able to grasp what she so admired about him. Eren had reclaimed land from the titans and become a figurehead, a symbol—farcical as it was for mankind’s last chance to wear its antagonist’s shape—and in his most triumph-filled moments, Jean couldn’t see what she loved about him.

In more intimate exchanges as well, when he was possibly as endearing as Jean had ever seen him, Jean still couldn’t comprehend it. He would glimpse it for a second, a hair’s breadth from his fingertips, but it would slip away before he even had the chance to make a grab for it. Then again, “endearing” may not have been the right word for it.

Even with Jean’s fingertips digging into his soft thighs and hoisting him up by the hips, even with his back rhythmically thumping against the wall, Eren was still about as endearing as a toddler throwing a tantrum. And he certainly sounded like one, whimpers steadily slipping out with every heavy breath that left his lips, feet beating in frustration and desperation against the small of Jean’s back. Choked sobs tore from his throat in time with the rough, wet smacks of Jean’s hips against his own, and a deep shudder rolled up Eren’s spine, tingling in his nerves, crackling through his body something electric. It was clear from his shivering—not to mention his incessant kicking and squirming—that Eren was close, so close, but this just wasn’t enough. Each time the blunt head squeezed tight past his prostate, sending hot jolts of liquid pleasure curling and swelling in his gut, he would tense. His toes would curl and his body would clench, ache, yet it never tipped over the edge. On the contrary, the raw sensation did little more than prolong the pleasure, to the point that it was nearly maddening. 

Eren muffled a shaky groan against Jean’s neck, head lolling to the side, and ground his forehead against the taller boy’s shoulder. His dark bangs were plastered to his head with sweat, damp against Jean’s shirt. The taller boy could feel the feverish heat radiating off of him, could feel Eren’s wet lips brushing, dragging over the sensitive skin of his neck. It was sloppy, and Eren was slack-jawed and so delirious Jean assumed that he didn’t actually know that he was drooling all over him. But when Eren’s breath fanned over his slick throat, the cool burst of air tickling over taut tendons and his rapid-fire pulse, Jean couldn’t bring himself to care about the slobber, about anything. He wouldn’t. Not while Eren’s sweaty cheek was flush against his jaw. While his nose, buried in Eren’s hair, was enveloped with the other boy’s scent. While Eren’s soft, parted lips pressed themselves in the crook of his neck.

Jean’s hips were a blur as he thrust into Eren, the shorter boy’s entire body jerking wildly with the movement, and Eren tossed his head back with a cry, whacking it hard against the wall behind him. Starting low in his belly and rippling through his body, pleasurable shocks coursed through him. With Jean swiftly rutting forwards, ramming against that tender place inside of him, the warmth pooling in Eren’s groin coiled so tightly it nearly burst.

His muscles rioted as he writhed against Jean, tensing and squeezing and clenching around the other boy. Jean’s breath hitched, a spasm lurching through his hips, and he desperately tried his best to focus on bloodshed, on titans, on anything but the phenomenal heat clamping around him, the wetness he was slipping into that made his knees weak and his legs tremble; in retrospect, Jean may have looked back and found it amusing that the single time titans weren’t on Eren’s mind, they were on his. But, given how wonderful Eren felt, that wasn’t his immediate concern. Despite the play on words, Jean was certain that premature ejaculation would probably be the absolute least climactic way to end this.

Jean winced abruptly when Eren’s hand, which had been carding through sandy-colored tufts of his hair, suddenly latched on and tugged, ripping his head back. Needles of pain prickled through his scalp, but Eren seemed rather oblivious to it all—his head still rested against the wall, nostrils flared and teeth gnashing. His other shaky hand was fisted into Jean’s shirt, hanging there weakly. 

Eren squirmed, twisting away from the nearly-painful sensations, yet still shallowly thrusting and flexing forwards, yearning for friction. Eren’s erection bobbed between them, flushed dark pink and rock-hard, droplets of pre-cum leaking and running down the length of it. Every once in a while, Jean could feel it prod against him, smearing wetness and catching on his shirt, and he held back a sigh. As much as he really didn’t want Eren using him as a rubbing post, he knew that he didn’t have many other options. Even finishing him off with his hand was no easy feat. Jean had seriously underestimated Eren’s muscle mass, because the kid was damn heavy, and he was pretty sure that if he let one hand go on the slippery grasp he already had on his hips, he was going to drop Eren on his ass. Though not eager on staining yet another shirt, Jean swallowed it down; they risked getting caught every instant they stayed out here, and now that tears were streaming down Eren’s face, he’d feel sort of bad making him wait any longer.

Jean pressed himself flush against Eren, pushing as deep as he could go and grinding slowly, rolling their bodies together. Eren lurched in surprise as Jean slipped in further, eyes fluttering open with a gasp; the instant he felt the hot pressure against his front, much to Jean’s embarrassment, Eren released a shout loud enough to rattle his ribcage, tapering off into a drawn-out, broken moan as he rocked against Jean’s motions. Briefly, Jean wondered how offended Eren would actually become if he slapped a hand over his mouth—getting caught humping the shit out of Eren Jäger behind the stables was probably the last thing on his to-do list, after all—but he realized it wouldn’t do much good at this point, anyways. The creaking of the wall, not to mention the rapid sound of flesh smacking together, was enough of a dead giveaway, even without fretting over Eren’s loud mouth. 

Jean wasn’t sure when exactly that became something he was used to fretting about.

He hadn't ever predicted that he'd wind up between the thighs of that self-righteous and crazy bastard, praying to every stonewall goddess he didn't believe in that Eren's shameless moaning didn't wake up half the military. It was never what he had in mind, but that being said, Jean had about sixteen years’ worth of subjective evidence that things never really went according to his plan—and, with his rather risky choice of career, hoped to have many more.

He would see what she saw in Eren, someday.


End file.
